Chapter 18

The day begins early. The morning stars peep down at us like silver asters, shimmering in their solar isolation. Whilst we are preparing and gearing up for the hunt. An expected guest rolls by. From where we stand, ready at the threshold, we can see beyond the wooden grating. Duce Merian arrives in a carriage of his own with so much luggage that a few of them had to be strapped on the roof.

The coachman retrieves the portable steps and places them at the foot of the door. Out of nowhere, he pops out an umbrella. He moves to open the door and swiftly holds up the foldable umbrella, a classic royal red. Duce Merian exits gracefully, outfitted in his stately emissary attire; a full white suit with two sashes. One at the back that bears his sigil in red, and the gold one knotted at the front flaunts the High King's crest.

I understand that it is a good form to follow political etiquette.

But I question his choice of a whole white suit... out here... in the wilderness.

Our attention reverts to the mission at hand as I'm given a belt quiver, a cylindrical container suspended from the hip. Rather flimsy but do-able. Supplied with a set of arrows inside, tied with their signature red feathers. Fortunately, the bow handed to me is already strung, but it's a traditional longbow. I was often trained with a recurve bow but I'll adapt. It's moment like these that make realise how indebted I am to Malachi, most of all I know is not only because of his teachings, but skills I heard to learn to be in his service as a merchman.

For a quick practice and to gauge the elasticity of the bow. I move into an open stance. The force of my hand is at the lateral centre of the bow's grip, just slightly below the centre. I test my hold on the bow by drawing the string back like I'm preparing to shoot.

"No, no, Aurora," Brennon chides.

I release and lower the bow to my side.

"You need an arrow in order to shoot. Careful now, it's not a toy."

I war with the pulsing, raw desire to shoot an arrow through his heart that only beats with constant malice. Like his sole purpose is to be a blight to every living soul near him. Particularly me.

"Where are your manners, Bren?" Markiveus sneers. He walks up to Brennon, clasping a hand on his shoulder. "She probably has never seen one up close, let alone knows how to use it," he says, and his perfectly shaped brows pucker with doubt.

I thwart a retort. Instead, I say, "I suppose it's time to learn how."

Once we are all ready, Oam joins us temporarily to relay the message that the hunt will be led by us. Because of course, it will. Primus Kelan rallies the appointed guards, only he and nine others are chosen to oversee the excursion, including Duce Merian.

The Oromian hunters wear the same as the soldiers. But their crimson tattoos are intricately etched on their chests, rounding their throats like an ageless necklace. Once we leave the compound, Dario from Regnum Cypress, instinctively takes the lead and navigates us through the open and endless expanse of grasslands, peppered with tall, isolated trees, naked and gnarly. Cool winds sift through the waist-high grass, stalks sway serenely as if waving in greeting. Spears of first light suddenly drench the farthest corners with its golden essence. Fluffy fleeces of clouds drift on the yawning sky. The horizon is stitched with the sterling silver of mountain peaks.

The prairie is dense as we trek on the clumpy, mossy mattress of the ground. Every glade of the creamy yellow grass, sun-soaked, and the orange tinge of dawn casts a honeyed sheen on the entire stretch. The colour is so similar to the Oromians' complexion, perfect for camouflage. The simpering wind carries a fragrance with it, crispy with the mulch mix of the prairie's perfume. Dario pioneers in front, often ducking down, dissolving into the grass to inspect his constant findings. Our convoy and the other hunters travel behind us with the guards flanking our sides.

Duce Merian follows at the rear with a guard beside him to hold up his umbrella, shielding him from the delicate rays. The sun is yet to come into its full power.

Eventually, he successfully leads us to an area rich with hunt. A watering hole close by, which offers the hope of potential kills both big and small. I ready my bow and slide out an arrow, notching it as my eyes survey the scenery. I hone my senses and focus on every sound: the chorus of beaked birds, the whisper of the wind, swishing leaves.

A squawk sounds from the east. My head whips in the direction, looking up. I step out from the formation of candidates, passing the line of guards on my one side, with my arrow aimed at the sky. The force resting on the heel of my hand and below the thumb joint, where my primary point of contact is, pressure resting on the ball of my thumb. I draw the bowstring back. A large, long-legged bird with a heavy straight bill soars into my line of target. In-flight, the wings are broad and rounded with the wingtip feathers spread like fingers.

"What are you trying to do? You cannot possibly—"

I raise the bow, releasing the arrow and it impales the bird right through the heart, dropping to the ground. My mark sticking out its body. Only the feathered end of the arrow can be seen from this distance.

I look back at Brennon, arching a brow at him challengingly. "My apologies, what was that?"

"Beginner's luck," he spits out, when we both know precision like that takes cycles to master.

My eyes skim past the gobsmacked expressions of the other Herems to Primus Kelan, who looks at me like I was a child who performed a witless stunt to demand attention.

And it infuriates me.

I don't seek his validation. I don't care, truly; I do not. Still, my irritation does not relent. My ears perk at the familiar collective squalls coming from the north, right ahead of me. I smirk internally. I flip aside to stand vertically from the pack of four ringerds flying obliviously to their deaths.

Try this for beginner's luck.

I swipe out an arrow and shoot it dead in the heart of the one. I repeat this feat of fatal accuracy three more times in rapid succession. So fast that all four victims of my pride plunge to the ground in unison. I lower my bow back to my side. I can barely enjoy the victory of seeing Brennon and all the Herems' dumbstruck faces, jaws nearly disappearing into the grass. Because when I glance back at Primus Kelan, he's exchanging terse words with one of his soldiers.

He wasn't even watching!

Not that it bothers me.

The hunt proceeds and Vince quickly rises, excelling, slaying two Anamantian boars. Huge creatures with thick hides and juicy meat. They have symmetrical brass horns with another pair from beneath the chin. They are so large that they require two hunters to carry each of them. To my disdain, both Markiveus and Rimnick are both good shots but none like Vince. He shines brighter than them all. A tad bit dimmer than I.

Honestly, a rivalry of testosterone, one looking to best the other. I manage to get more kills, scuttling prairie hares and other small mammals. I bind them together by their ankles and carry them as they hang tied upside down by their feet. Two of them slung over my shoulders as I have to repeatedly reject aid to have my load lessened.

When we arrive back at the compound with a bounty of food enough to feed the entire tribe. Sinewy muscles rippling under the sun's warm glow. The scent of fresh earth and foliage cling to us, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. We all gather around the communal fire pit to skin our wins. An Oromian lights up the pit and soon it bursts with flames.

Settled on a backless and armless stone seat, I use one of my daggers to skin them. With swift, deft movements, we begin the process of skinning the meat. My blade rakes across the flesh, peeling back the hide with surgical precision. The soft sound of slicing sinew and the occasional snap of a bone punctuated the rhythmic, almost meditative work. Strips of skin are carefully removed, exposing the rich, red muscle beneath. I watch with half-hearted amusement at the Herems and their bumbling motions with their blades. They are decent hunters, but obviously they have never had to tend to their quarry when all that menial work was done for them.

Dario plops down beside me and he places his game between his legs, knife ready in his hand. He's athletically built like all the others, but he's more slender, noticeably less brawn. But it becomes him, it suits his aesthetic.

"You were remarkable today. You can shoot... all too well if I can confess. And not only that but you nearly outshot all of us."

I smile softly and look back at him. A thick sheet of dusky curly locks covers his forehead, dome cut, whisked and wild in its natural frizz. But there's a sort of mannish charm to it, alike to his boyish face. He focuses on his task completely, staring at the creature down his imperious nose aligned with arched cheekbones. Dario is from Regnum Cypress. They possess the most profitable farmlands in the provinces, a tribute to their illustrious alliance with the Terra.

"Well, I tribute my success to you. We all do, since it was you who led us."

He smiles then looks back at me, his eyes clay grey. "Perhaps we can help each other."

"Oh?" I pause and twist my shoulders to face him, physically expressing my interest.

"I can teach you how to track."

"I know how to track."

"Not as good as me," he says quickly. "I know invaluable trades and tricks that the Terra themselves have taught us. In turn..." he trails off as if it pains him to utter the words by admitting to his shortcomings. "You show me how you shoot with a proficiency like your own."

I let out a thoughtful sound, a steady whine, deliberating on his proposition.

One that I see no harm in. It benefits him as much as it benefits me.

"Alright Herem Dario. We have an accord."

***

The days out here seem to blend together. Days or weeks? I lost count.

There is no structured order or scheduled events, only tasks that must be completed to ensure their ongoing survival and prosperity in their primal way of life.

As promised, I teach Dario how to shoot, at least more accurately. Neither of us can believe it. I hone his skill in archery inside the compound, entertaining the children of the tribe, using targets of their choosing to practise with. Solaris often lingers around us if he is not busying himself with the duties of the tribesmen, learning as much as he can.

Vince and the others slay time by going on hunts with the Oromian hunters, following their game trails. Most of the candidates go along as well. When it is time for Dario to honour his side of the accord, we go beyond the compound. And every time we do, guards are tailing us, and Primus Kelan is always among them.

I have learnt so much from Dario.

The initial step of expert hunting is to first learn the trails. Then how to identify paw prints, the size of the print and the number of toes. This is a basic feature of footprints that can be very revealing, since different animals have different numbers of toes in their prints, whether the prints are left by a hoofed beast or not. The next step is to look at where the footprints fall and try to identify a pattern. Diagonal walkers, including felines, canines, and hoofed animals lift the front and hind legs on opposite sides at the same time. They leave behind staggered tracks.

Dario and I have our fair share of lessons, but it often gets paired up with Vince and the other hunters. And we all sort of went with the collaboration.

During this time, Duce Merian follows each of us individually and sometimes together. I don't know how the scoring system works; High King Urus failed to give us that vital piece of information. To tell you the truth, I'm uncertain of the value of this test. This test to integrate ourselves into a native tribe that has no influence on the economic or political stability of our realm.

Perhaps my own ignorance for thinking so.

Today, we take an excursion beyond the ridge.

The land plunges into rocky dunes before it rises into towering, granite-faced cliffs, a terrain furrowed with iron folds, dense with tall fern with coarse lobed fronds and wind-tousled trees. Our hunting party consists of the Oromian hunters, several purebloods with half of our guard. Primus Kelan accompanies us against Duce Merian's pleas for him to remain with them at the compound.

And it takes us from dawn to the noontide to reach our destination, but the day's trek was worth it. We emerge on the cusp of an embanked valley, alive with meat. Dozens of hoofed ruminant mammals graze the carpeted basin of green, long-antlered animals scraping at lichen from trunks and boulders and what grows from the earth. A wide but narrow canyon separates us from this paradise of wild flock, enclosed by high mountains. The vast chasm is bridged by a single, slender rock wall that cleaves the abyss in two. This precarious walkway, with its head matching the breadth of one's foot, stretches out in a daringly narrow line. It teeters absurdly thin, a mere thread of stone suspended over the void, challenging one's balance with each tentative step. The sheer drop on either side is dizzying, and the rock beneath feels like it could vanish at any moment, testing the courage and steadiness of all who dare traverse it.

Vince braves the first step and stomps his foot on the ledge to test its durability. Satisfied, he pulls himself forward and begins a wary advance to the other side. Dario extends his hand and I take it rather eagerly. A smile tugs at his lips as he faces forward, keeping our hands interlocked behind him as he draws us forward. Treyton, Markiveus, Tamani and Brennon follow along with nine Avangard soldiers.

"Keep your eyes ahead," Vince says from the forefront.

A spine-chilling screech yanks my gaze below at the one side of the chasm. The ceiling of the deep cleft is a thick layer of black, giving not even a glimpse of what atrocity skulks beneath. A rattling hiss slithers out of the abyss. I squeeze Dario's hand impulsively, and he squeezes my hand back, each leaching comfort from the other.

When we make it safely across, we both drop each other's hands. The party filters down the steep slope to the bountiful field, with grass that tickles our waists, perfect for the stealth of the hunt. Out of courtesy, the hunters allow us to make our first mark, gesticulating at Vince without speech. He props up his hunting spear readily, but there's a change in his gaze when it falls on me.

"We all know what you can do with a bow." He holds the spear at his side like a staff. "What about a hunting spear?"

I smile uneasily. "Are you testing me?"

"An honest challenge." His eyes in the sunlight are like blood-orange jewels. "But if you're not up to it—"

"I never said that."

We make the trade of bow and spear. I lead the hunting party through until I spot a mammal worth the kill. A horned antelope chewing at the flora and fauna near the watering hole. I approach covertly, leaving the rest of them under the cover of the grass.

 I hold the shaft with the spearhead aimed at the young white-tailed yallow. I burst into explosive movement and with a violent jerk of my shoulder; the spear arrows forward with a sharp hiss, slicing through the air before it strikes the animal with lethal precision.

A chorus of impressed chatter ripples amongst the Oromrian.

 Vince makes two close kills, and Dario surpasses us both with four, consecutively.

We do not stay for long since swollen clouds threaten havoc.

The sound of rumbling ruptures the cocoon of silence. The hunters shuttle their kills on their shaft, sharing the load borne upon their shoulders with the animal's deadweight dangling upside down with its ankles bound to the shaft. The blotted sun is like a glowing torch behind darkened clouds that release a sleet of rain.

The entire hunting party returns to the ridge, rapidly ascending. The heavy mists mantling the forested slope as the light drizzle hardens into a battering shower that obscures my vision, pebbles and petals unhinged by a wheezing wind. The carnal-black clouds above begin to coalesce together. We rush back to the chasm blindly. And when we arrive the walkway is bemired and mud-spluttered, turning into nature's deadly obstacle course, having to walk across a toothpick-thin lane that rifts a gorge apart.

The Omorian spring across despite the slippery sludge. In the mayhem of eye-blurring rain, pureblood and Avangardians flitting past my vision to the ledge. Dario outstretches his hand but is swept away by the current, Tretyon and Tamnai pushing him onwards. I dare to creep on the devil's nose on my own, treading on the bridge with ultra caution despite the elements threatening complete destabilisation.

A crackle of ominous shrieks bellows from below; a sound so shrill it pierces my skull. Arms outstretched with the hunting spear still in one hand, dense rain pouring down in a flood, yet the air is heavy with humidity. I take my one foot in front of the other, mindful of each step like a child learning their first.

"Whoa."

I freeze. Someone slips behind me—knocking sounds—a descending echo of crushed rocks tumbling into the abyss. I revolve slowly to see Markiveus on one knee, gripping the spur of the rocky ridge almost as narrow as the width of his knee. I edge towards him, though my mind implores me to do the opposite.

"Give me your hand."

He looks up at me squinting, face distorted in a frown, rain gushing down his cheeks.

"Give me your hand."

He raises it tentatively, and from a rise of mysterious trust—or lack of hope—clasps my hand suddenly. I aid him in his ascent as he rises unsteadily, swaying haphazardly, but my hand remains in his, loaning support until he secures his stability.

He blows a cry-laugh of relief. "Nearly lost my footing there—"

A riotous shriek shatters the amorphous roof of the chasm.

"—just like you're about to."

With one violent jerk, he chucks me into the abyss. Darkness inhales a breath to swallow me whole. My body smacks against the jagged rock wall—I claw at it, trying to halt myself—too fast to even grasp anything. Pain rips out a scream from the jarring stop—my hand snags a bulge in the wall somewhere between the earth's crust and the netherworld. The earthwork bursting with scattered bulging stones suitable for mountaineering. I heave myself up to the next one that is so close to reach, only to be betrayed by my own body.

My strength falters and my hand skids off, sucked towards the depths. My stomach afloat, air whistling, bubbling across my skin until my body cracks the ground on impact—pain fracturing through me instantaneously and excruciatingly. I lay there, breathless, gasping, rain filling my mouth and pelting my tongue, freshwater beginning to pool around me. Consciousness flickering into my mind, reluctant and evasive.

A distant screech shocks me awake. I flop over, bones groaning with protest, feeling as fragile as ceramics. I don't know what part of me to clutch onto. Everywhere hurts. However, the imminent peril alleviates the agony enough for me to move. Before I initiate the bone-weary trudge to my only escape, a bone-chilling shriek rips through the gorge and a form of too many angles streak towards me.

The hunting spear is a few metres ahead of me and a dead-end is at my rear. I explode into a run, diving to the ground to grasp the spear—pivoting midair to avoid a bulky blur racing past me—I flip over, landing with a strategic and deft roll to end on my one knee, my other leg extended to the side. I snap into a ready position with both hands on the shaft, gawking at the lithe creature hewn of rocks and scales, prowling towards me on four legs with two rows of need-like fangs. The outer row of teeth are like filed down grindstones clawing out of its face, carving across its cheeks like a grisly grin. Its reddish scales are iridescent, its spine ridged with jutting rocks lined from the centre of its head until the tip of its thick tail.

It bares its ultra-thin and knife-like fangs at me with a salivating hiss.

A rodon. Its head is long and narrow, its snout somewhat flattened, with a fairly large head. Its sleek body is lightweight and built for speed, making it an effective predator, efficient during a hunt. Ensuring death with merely one scratch of its venom-filled talons: first comes paralysis, then comes the choking before the last breath is reaped.

 It lurches forward threateningly. I dart back, heart thumping, fear shivering through my blood. The heavens cast a rock, and the noise beckons its attention, giving me the split-second chance of a delusional escape. I whip around and sprint down the throat of the rock-strewn canal, decimating my energy tank like my stamina has an endless supply, ignoring the lung burn, muscle ache and demanding fatigue. I cannot outrun it.

A growing blur rockets towards me at blinding speeds.

I plunge the foot of the spear into the ground, using the momentum to swing myself in the other direction so I can face it. The rodon from the rear leaps into the air. Death gapes at me, teeth gleaming in the rushlight, sickly teeth drip with dark ichor. I thrust the shaft into his mouth with rigorous force—black blood spurts on my face—the spearhead blasts through brains and skull to protrude on the other side. 

Urgency gives no ground to distraught. I rip it out and turn, only for the heft of another to overtake me. I hold the shaft above my face, its jaws snapping at the shaft that acts as the lone barrier between its jowls and my face. The shaft splinters and so does my strength. I demand it, clinging to the last scrap until there is nothing left to hold on to. Dread coiling my insides into a tangle. Tears sear behind my eyes. I free a drawn-out scream that deafens its high-pitched shriek.

A flash of steel—the tip of the blade shears through its neck, unleashing a fountain of blood upon me, a fresh splatter to stain my face further. The rodon slumps, its head lolls and its weight is thrown off me to expose ink-dark eyes that make the midnight look like noonday. Primus Kelan lifts me up with unexpected and unnatural gentleness. He motions wordlessly to the dead-end, a signal that is clear. Escape. Instincts compel me to obey his silent command. My eyes steal a glance at the Avangard soldier with an old fleshly scar that brackets his eyebrow.

I rush back to the rift with them as they watch my rearguard.

I throw myself against the rock wall and I begin to climb, this time just as swiftly but accepting my newfound limitations that pain has foisted on me. The higher I rise, the more I see shapes like faces hover over the edge curiously, extending and retracting until I reach the brink with the Primus and one of his soldiers not far behind.

My hand seizes the rocky verge like an ancient one awoken from eternal sleep. I push myself up, rain still hammering down, the purebloods retreat as I rise, drawing myself to a full ascent with all of them gawking at my soaked, blood-drenched form like I'm risen from the dead. My limbs quiver from a great tremor within, trembling with barely contained wrath, as if an unholy storm rages beneath my skin. The Omorian hunters are abuzz with surprise. The purebloods cannot even keep their eyes contained.

Markiveus eyes abound with shock. "Impossible," he whispers absently. The barrage of rain muffling his speech, words doused by the downpour. "She should be dead."

I do the only thing my body will permit. I smile.

***

By the time we reach the compound, the rains have ceased.

The entire hunting party streams through the threshold and once we're inside. An iron-forge-grip clamps on my bicep and drags me to the sidelines. I allow myself to be pulled to the margins, seamed with guards. They withdraw at the hazard of the hurricane surging towards their range. The fight sapped from my bones. I have no will to go against him.

He jerks me in front of him. "What happened?"

"You saw what happened."

"Which one of them pushed you?"

Surprise braces the brunt of long-lingering aches. "What makes you think I did not slip at the expense of my own clumsiness?"

Anger kindles in his eyes, mutating his face. He stands before me, a figure radiating pure, unbridled rage. His eyes blaze with a fire that seems to sear the air around us, their intensity cutting through everything they behold.

 "Which one of them pushed you?"

The thought of seeing Markiveus punished entices a piece of me. The purpose it would serve is obsolete, for it will change nothing, as it will likely prevent nothing. I can only imagine the severity of his retribution would be grave according to the fury in the Primus's eyes alone.

 But I lived, and for now, that is enough.

"I slipped."

I move to leave. He captures my arm again.

"Those who expect mercy are seen as weak; those that grant it are seen as even less. It will only cultivate further antagonising since you refuse to declare his name."

"I slipped," I mutter. "I know it's difficult to comprehend, but even the best make mistakes."

"Cockiness does not suit you."

I ravage for the might to wrench my arm from his grasp. "Your anger only belies the fear behind your words." My eyes scan him in a slow once-over that makes him shift subtly. "Much concern for one whom you claim does not belong. I don't want your concern, and I definitely don't want your care."

His hand flashes to my temple. A blaze of scalding pain. His hand recedes to show the fresh blood that now stains his fingertips. I wasn't even aware of it. My hand flies to my forehead, not realising I had sustained a head injury that still seeps.

"Your arrogance will be your undoing."

***

At some time, the Augur, the Chieftain's wife, returns with the other spiritual leaders of the Oromian. But she has made no formal appearance for either us nor her people.

I suppose whatever they were praying for; she doesn't like the answer.